Sugar, It's Cold Outside
by duplicitywrites
Summary: Harry Potter only ever sees his elusive, handsome neighbour Tom Riddle when Riddle wants to borrow a bit of sugar. However, an embarrassing incident leads to Tom taking a sudden interest in Harry, which quickly gets out of hand. Never let it be said that Tom Riddle doesn't get what he wants. (COMPLETE.)
1. beautiful, please don't hurry—

A/N:

inspired by the song 'baby, it's cold outside'.

tom is very naughty in this, but harry is already really into tom... so everything is consensual, if rather questionable as to how they got to the point of being in said situation to begin with.

* * *

_**Sugar, It's Cold Outside**_

* * *

Harry had only been living in his new flat for six months, but he thought he'd grown to know the other tenants pretty well.

There was flat 5R, where Luna Lovegood lived. She was a smiling, doe-eyed woman who was always draped in colourful shawls and scarves. In the flat above Luna, on the top floor, was Hermione Granger in 6R. She was a lawyer at a non-profit organization, and she was wickedly good at her job.

Then there was 5G, which was home to Ron and Ginny Weasley, a pair of fiery, red-headed siblings. Harry had already been over to their flat dozens of times, and he was quickly becoming close mates with Ron, who was both easy-going and cheerful.

Since most of the tenants in the small building got along so well, Hermione frequently organized little parties for them all to spend time together, usually watching movies and having a few drinks.

Harry himself lived in 6G, which happened to be next to flat that belonged to the building's most solitary tenant—a man named Tom Riddle, who was maybe a few years older than Harry.

Riddle kept odd hours, coming and going at all times of the day and night. He was always dressed in sharp, expensive suits, and Harry often saw Riddle arguing in low, harsh whispers over the phone whenever they crossed paths in the corridor. It was hard to imagine what someone like that was doing living in a cheap flat like the ones in their building.

"He's just like that," Hermione had said, when Harry raised concerns over their often-absent neighbour. "We've tried reaching out to him before, but he just doesn't care to socialize."

But Harry, being the kind of person that he was, still tried to catch Riddle's eye in the corridors and offer the man a smile. And the friendliness seemed to work, somewhat, because sometimes Riddle would knock on Harry's door and ask, however curtly, for a bit of sugar.

Harry would hand it over, trying hard not to stare too long at his handsome neighbour. Because Tom Riddle was all cheekbones and coiffed hair and dark eyes and broad shoulders, which combined altogether made Harry a bit weak in the knees.

If Harry was particularly lucky when Riddle stopped by, he would be treated to Riddle using his surname in greeting ("Potter"), instead of Riddle simply showing up and demanding sugar like Harry was his personal assistant. Unfortunately for Harry, most of the time Riddle was carrying a cup of Starbucks around with him, like it was glued to his hand permanently. So Harry didn't get very many opportunities to interact with Riddle, let alone try to invite him to some of the friendly gatherings that Hermione hosted in her flat.

By the time December rolled around, Harry was enjoying spending time with his neighbours when he wasn't working late hours as a security guard at the local posh hotel.

It was one such late night when Harry was fumbling his way over to his flat, digging in his pockets for his keys. Finding his keys also unearthed three napkins, twenty coins of various denominations, and a phone number that he certainly didn't remember getting.

Harry was barely upright now, but he knew he had to shower before he passed out, because he'd gotten one of those frothy iced coffees spilled on him partway through his shift, and he didn't want to ruin his sheets with the stench of coffee and the sickly sweetness of corn syrup.

Finally, Harry managed, in his exhausted haze, to work his way inside his flat. He dropped his bag on the floor by his shoes, shutting the door and turning the lock. He threw his keys onto the couch and walked, his eyes half-lidded, to the bathroom, where he stripped quickly and stepped into his shower. One quick rinse later, Harry had toweled himself off and collapsed into a dreamless heap on top of his bed.

He woke up, some hours later, to the sound of someone banging insistently on his door. Harry groaned, rolling onto his back. He reached for his glasses and jammed them onto his face. Then he got to his feet clumsily, knocking his shin against the doorframe of his bedroom as he went to respond to whoever it was that was knocking at… at whatever ungodly hour it currently was.

When Harry managed to unlock the door and pull it open, he was greeted with Tom Riddle's usual bored expression. Riddle was looking at his phone, rapidly typing out a message with both hands, and he did not even glance at Harry as he said, "Sugar."

Harry blinked. Riddle was fully dressed, his hair styled to perfection, and he looked like something out of a magazine rather than Harry's next door neighbour.

"What time is it?" Harry heard himself asking.

Riddle's face twisted into an expression of annoyance. "It's five in the morning," Riddle said impatiently, and then, _ finally_, he looked up. And stared.

It was then that Harry remembered he was only wearing the towel he'd wrapped around his waist before he'd passed out last night. "Uh," said Harry eloquently, now wide awake with embarrassment. "I'll go get you your sugar." A red flush was spreading its way from his cheeks all the way down to his chest as he whirled around, practically running to his kitchen in an attempt to get away from Riddle's piercing gaze.

Harry quickly poured a bit of sugar into a paper cup, ignoring the way his hands shook, ignoring the excess of sugar he accidentally got all over his counter in the process. Then he jogged back over to the door, cursing his overeagerness, and presented the cup to Riddle.

Riddle had put his phone away at some point, and was now fixing the full impressive force of his attention upon Harry. "Thank you, Harry," said Riddle smoothly, taking the cup from Harry's outstretched hand, and his fingers _ brushed _ against Harry's in the process, a motion which nearly sent Harry spiraling into cardiac arrest right there on his own doorstep.

And then Riddle bent down to scoop something up off of the floor. Harry was too frozen in place to do more than simply stare at the air where Riddle had been only a second ago. When Riddle straightened back up, though, he was holding Harry's phone in his hand.

"You must have dropped this last night when you came in," Riddle said, eyeing the phone with interest. It was an older model, and the screen was badly cracked in the top left corner. Harry's ancient phone was probably hundreds of dollars cheaper than Riddle's, which was the newest model of iPhone or something like that. The sight of his cheap phone in Riddle's hand looked so out of place that Harry began to wonder if he was actually still asleep and dreaming.

"Ah, yeah, I must have," Harry said awkwardly. He held his hand out, wishing he could curl up in a corner and die, and said, "Thanks."

But Riddle didn't hand the phone back. Instead, he pressed the power button, and the screen lit up with a photo of Harry, Ron, and Hermione from about two months prior, when they'd gone to a Halloween party together. The passcode screen came up and Riddle stared down at it, like it was a particularly interesting article from the _ National Geographic_.

"Um," said Harry.

"Passcode?" asked Riddle, as though the two of them weren't standing together on Harry's doorstep while Harry was clad in only a towel.

"Zero-seven-thirty-one," Harry said, without even pausing to think about it.

Riddle unlocked the phone and went directly to Harry's contacts, scrolling through the admittedly short list of names. Then he drew up a new contact and proceeded to punch in his own information right before Harry's increasingly widening eyes.

Riddle was giving Harry his phone number.

He was giving _ Harry _ his _ phone number_.

Harry didn't think he was going to be able to do anything at all for the rest of the day, because this exact moment was going to light his brain on fire and consume any chance he had at having a coherent thought ever again.

Then Riddle handed Harry's phone back out, and Harry took it numbly, not trusting his voice.

"Thank you again for the sugar," Riddle said warmly, and then he turned around and vanished back into his own flat.

Harry stood there stupidly for another entire minute before he realized that he was, in fact, freezing cold. He trudged back inside and shut his door, not bothering with the lock since he was home and awake, and went to sit down on his crappy sofa and stare at his phone.

Unlocking it, he swiped quickly to his contacts, scrolling until he saw his address book's latest addition.

Riddle had put his name into Harry's phone as _ Tom_.

With a trembling hand, Harry went up to the name below _ Tom _ and hit the call button. The phone rang once, twice, three times before someone picked up.

"Harry?" asked Ron blearily. "What's wrong?"

Wrong? Harry sat there for a moment, confused. Did Ron somehow know that Harry had just embarrassed himself in front of the most attractive man in their entire building and had somehow still managed to get his phone number?

"Harry?" Ron repeated, more urgently this time. "It's nearly six in the morning, Harry, what's the matter?"

"Fuck," Harry swore. Then, with more vigour, "_Fuck. _ Sorry, I didn't realize—what time—it was—it's just—Riddle just—"

"What is it?" Ron demanded. "What did Riddle do?"

"_Riddlesawmeshirtlessandgavemehisphonenumber_," Harry said in a rush.

There was silence on the other end of the line for a long, torturous moment.

"Oh my _ god_," said Ron. "He _ likes _ you. He doesn't like any of us, he doesn't even talk to any of us, but he fancies _ you_. He asks you for fucking _ sugar_, of course he fancies you."

Harry made a strangled, garbled sound at this, which made Ron start laughing at him.

"Shut up!" Ron said between snorts. "Shut up, you oblivious prat, I'm going to wake Ginny up and she'll kill me—"

"I'm hanging up now," Harry managed to say. "Let me die in my embarrassment alone, please."

"Put on some pants first," Ron said, then laughed again, which made Harry yank his phone away from his ear and hit 'end call' rather viciously.

Tossing his phone aside for now, Harry lay back on his sofa and ran through the entire interaction with Riddle—no, _ Tom_—again.

'_You must have dropped this last night when you came in_', Tom had said. Did Tom notice when Harry worked late? Or was Harry just really noisy when he came home? Harry winced, hoping that wasn't the case.

Tom wanted Harry to… to call him? Or text him. Or maybe Harry was supposed to wait for Tom to text him first. Harry usually just tried to work up enough courage to approach the people he found attractive and give them _ his _ number, not the other way around. Tom was an entirely different kind of person compared to the people Harry typically went out with, and Harry had no idea how to handle someone who was so out of his league.

Unable to make a decision, Harry spent the rest of the work week doing absolutely nothing about it. But Tom must have been busy anyways, because Harry didn't catch so much as a glimpse of him, even though he'd taken to peeking out periodically to see whether or not his elusive neighbour was home.

The following weekend, however, was the weekend before Christmas. All of Harry's friends had plans to go visit family for Christmas. Hermione had flown out to Australia to see her parents a few days ago, Luna was visiting her father in France, and Ron and Ginny were driving out to their parents' house to stay for the holidays. The Weasleys had also invited Harry over for Christmas, but Harry had felt it would be too strange to spend the holidays with a family he didn't really know all that well.

So Harry was condemned to a rather lonely Christmas on his own this year, seeing as his only holiday plans were for working overtime at the hotel to pick up some extra cash.

It was five in the morning on Christmas Eve when Harry had trudged home, shaking the snow from his hat as he entered the building. He waited long moments in the lobby for the elevator, his teeth still chattering from the cold outside. Inside of the elevator was not much better, but Harry knew if he could just make it to his flat without turning into an icicle, everything would be fine.

That, of course, had been wishful thinking on his part.

As soon as Harry had removed his key from his lock and stepped inside his flat, he had known something was wrong. The entire place was _ freezing_. He went to check the thermostat, but that didn't seem to be the problem. Shivering even more, Harry rubbed his gloved hands together, trying to think. Was the heating off in the entire building, or was it just his flat?

There was a simple way to get the answer to that.

Harry pulled out his phone and texted the maintenance man, Argus Filch. Then he sat on his sofa, still wrapped up in his hat, scarf, and coat, and waited.

A few minutes passed, and then Harry's phone screen lit up.

Grabbing his phone eagerly, Harry opened up the message. Then his face fell. It seemed that only a few flats had been affected by some kind of outage, but seeing as most people had already gone home for Christmas, there was no one available to fix it until tomorrow morning at the earliest.

Harry cursed colourfully, shaking his legs as he bounced up and down in an attempt to keep the blood flowing in his limbs.

Then, miraculously, there was a knock at the door. Three knocks in a row, all of them insistent and sharp—Harry knew right away whose knocks they were. He stood up, stumbling over his own feet and nearly knocking over his coffee table, and made his way to the door.

Tom was there, handsome as ever, wearing _ casual clothes_. He was wearing _ jeans_. Harry tried hard not to stare as he took in the sight of Tom Riddle in dark, probably-designer skinny jeans and a comfortable, black cashmere jumper.

"Hello, Harry," Tom said, smiling. Then he seemed to register the total state of _ weird _ that was Harry being clad entirely in winter gear while inside of his own flat, and his brows furrowed slightly. "I heard you come in about ten minutes ago, and I was wondering if I could—"

"Sugar," Harry babbled in a panic, cutting Tom off. Then he flushed and added, "You're here for sugar?"

"Yes," said Tom, and there was that dazzling smile again.

"Yeah, obviously, of course—just—give me a moment," Harry said quickly, and then he hurriedly went to go fulfill Tom's request.

"Oh, there's no hurry, Harry," Tom called after him. "Take your time." Then Tom began to tap his foot upon the floor, though he seemed to be humming a Christmas song under his breath to go with the beat. Harry couldn't quite make out what it was from where he was standing in the kitchen.

Once he had the paper cup of sugar in hand, Harry rushed back over. He would purchase paper cups for the rest of his life if it meant Tom kept coming back for more sugar.

"It's rather cold in here," Tom noted. He had stopped humming, and his foot was now still. "Is there something wrong with your heating?"

"Oh," said Harry. "Yes. Filch said the heating's been busted in some of the flats. There'll be someone in to fix it tomorrow morning."

Tom looked at Harry for a solemn moment, and then said, "Well, that simply won't do. You'll have to come and stay with me."

"I—what?" Harry asked.

"Your flat has no heating," Tom repeated slowly. "You can't possibly expect to stay in it for the rest of the day. You'll catch pneumonia and freeze to death long before nightfall. Unless you have somewhere else to go?"

"No, but. But. You—" Harry tried again. "You really don't have to do that."

"Why not?" Tom held up his cup of sugar and gave it a little shake, raising his brow as he did so. "We are neighbours, after all. And it's Christmas Eve."

"Well, alright," Harry agreed hesitantly, "if you're sure it's no trouble—"

"Of course it isn't," Tom said crisply. "No trouble at all."

"Then… I guess I'll just go and grab some of my things," Harry finished, shuffling his sock-clad feet against his cold hardwood floor.

"I'll meet you at mine when you're ready, then," said Tom.

So Harry wandered, dazed, into his room, and then proceeded to pack the fastest bag of toiletries he'd ever packed in his life. And then he changed into his nicest pair of jeans, the ones that he usually got compliments on when he wore them, and a brilliant green jumper that he'd once gotten as a gift from an ex. It was the fanciest jumper Harry owned, and it looked the best on him because the colour matched his eyes.

Examining himself briefly in the mirror, Harry raised a hand to his dishevelled hair, which had been made horrendously misshapen by his hat, and tried to tame it into something resembling style.

Then he clutched the bag containing his toothbrush, toothpaste, and other toiletries, and took a deep breath to ease his quivering nerves.

Harry locked up his flat and walked next door to Tom's. The door to Tom's flat was labelled with two silver characters that made up 6S. Harry knocked lightly twice.

The door opened after a few seconds. Tom was smiling again, every inch of his face glaringly attractive as he did so. He took a step back, gesturing Harry inside.

Tom's flat was very... clean. It was a far cry from Harry's flat, with its mismatched furniture and Harry's things strewn about everywhere. Everything about Tom's flat screamed 'perfection'. The walls were painted a cool grey, and there was a plain black leather sofa in the middle of the sitting area with a soft white rug rolled out in front of it.

There were no pictures or personal touches on the walls, but there was a rather large statue of a snake sitting in the corner of the room, where one might expect a potted plant to be. Tom's flat was larger than Harry's, too, likely because Tom's was on the corner and therefore got to take up more space.

"What do you think?" Tom asked, his hands clasped politely behind his back.

"I think it's perfect," Harry said eagerly. "It suits you really well." Then he blushed, because that was a brazen thing to say to someone who had invited you into their home on Christmas because your heating was broken.

But Tom only flashed Harry another delightful smirk, which made Harry feel a little more confident.

"You can set your things in my bathroom," Tom said. "It's just this way." And then he walked over to Harry, placing his hand gently on the small of Harry's back, and guided him towards the bathroom door. Harry could smell the rich scent of Tom's cologne wafting towards him.

"Thanks again for letting me stay," Harry said, talking so as to distract himself from the warm feel of Tom's hand through his jumper. "I know it's Christmas Eve, and you probably have better things to do than to spend it making sure your neighbour doesn't freeze to death."

Tom opened the door to the bathroom, which was just as tidy as the rest of the flat, and watched as Harry set his bag on top of the sink counter. "Really, Harry, it's no issue. I didn't have any plans for Christmas Eve, so it will be nice to have someone to spend it with this year."

"Oh?" Harry breathed, because Tom was still standing rather close to him. "So you're not—you aren't—" He could see Tom's face reflected in the mirror. He could see how Tom was mere inches away from pressing his mouth against Harry's hair.

"I am most definitely not seeing anyone," said Tom, and the glint in his dark eyes was utterly predatory.

Harry coughed. "Right. Well. Er—good. I mean, not _ good_, but, um."

"Why don't I go make you a cup of coffee," Tom said easily, suddenly withdrawing. "It's the least I can do, considering all the sugar you've loaned me."

Harry followed Tom back out into the sitting area, feeling a bit dizzy at the sudden loss of contact. Then Tom walked them up to a large, shiny, expensive-looking coffee machine. Harry balked. If Tom had this kind of insanely fancy contraption just sitting in his kitchen, then why did he—?

"I like to add the sugar in manually afterwards," Tom said, reading Harry's mind. "I don't buy those pods that already come pre-sweetened."

Harry watched quietly as Tom efficiently produced two cups of steaming coffee and set them upon the counter.

"How many sugars?" Tom asked him.

"Ah, two sugars is fine," Harry said.

So Tom reached out for the paper cup of sugar that Harry had poured for him, and carefully portioned out two spoonfuls into one of the two black mugs, which he then slid over to Harry.

Then Tom set the cup and the spoon back down, and lifted his own cup of coffee—plain black with _ no sugar_—to his lips.

To Harry's dumbfounded expression, Tom said, "I take my tea with sugar, not my coffee." Tom was smirking again, his mouth curling against the rim of his coffee mug, and Harry had the distinct feeling that Tom was enjoying Harry's awkwardness.

"Right," Harry said.

They finished their drinks in silence. Harry was now beginning to regret having agreed to come over, because now that he was here, it was clear that Tom was going to realize Harry was boring, and then Tom was going to be annoyed at being stuck with Harry until tomorrow morning.

"Maybe I should see if there's someone else I can stay with for the night," Harry suggested, even though he had no idea who he could ask. Maybe he could book a room at a motel somewhere. "You've been too kind already, and I really don't want to cause you any trouble."

"Don't be ridiculous, Harry," Tom said, his tone a bit sharp. "I've told you, I'd like the company."

Harry held his now-empty mug carefully in both hands. "If you're sure," Harry said hopefully. He did like Tom, and he didn't really want to leave unless he had to.

"I'm _ very _ sure," Tom said, looking pleased. Then he took the mug out of Harry's hands and placed it, along with the other mug, into his empty dishwasher. "Why don't you make yourself comfortable on the couch? Or did you want to sleep? You can take my bed, if that's the case."

The idea of even seeing Tom Riddle's bedroom, let alone sleeping in his bed, was quite possibly the most terrifying thing Harry had ever imagined.

"I'm not tired," Harry said quickly.

Tom wound his way around Harry, back towards the leather couch, so Harry followed him, still feeling out of place.

"I could put a movie on," Tom suggested. "And I'm afraid I don't have any breakfast foods to eat, but we can order in."

"Sure," Harry said. "I left my wallet in my flat, but I can go get it—" He made a half-hearted motion towards the door, but Tom was already shaking his head and reaching over to pull Harry towards him.

"You're my guest," Tom said, his fingers clasping gently around Harry's forearm. "I'd hardly expect you to pay for breakfast."

Harry closed his mouth and went to go sit on the couch.

Tom pulled out his phone and set about ordering. Harry tried to listen to what was going on, because he wanted to know where Tom was ordering from, not to mention _ what _he was ordering, but it was difficult to focus on Tom's voice, because his eyes were fixed on Harry the entire time he was making the call. Eventually, Tom hung up and set his phone down on the side table next to the couch.

And then Tom pulled out a Macbook and opened up Netflix, pushing the entire contraption over towards Harry. "Pick something," Tom said.

Then, suddenly, Tom's phone rang loudly. Tom looked over at the screen, and his expression went dark. He picked up the phone and answered it, walking away from Harry as he did so.

"I thought I told you _ no one was to call me today_," Tom said, his tone so dreadfully terrible that it likely forebode death for whoever had dared to pick up their phone and dial Tom's number.

Harry forced his attention back to the laptop screen and tried to convince his brain to pick a movie. It was Christmas, so that meant he ought to pick a Christmas movie… Harry scrolled and scrolled, but he couldn't think of anything, because he'd never seen many Christmas movies when he'd lived at the Dursley's.

"Sorry about that," Tom said, his manner once again pleasant as he walked back into the room. "Work emergency. What have you got for us to watch?"

Clicking desperately, Harry hit play and shuffled over on the couch so that Tom could sit down next to him and see what he'd chosen.

"The… Princess Switch?" Tom asked dubiously.

"I don't know," Harry said, trying to sink down into the couch cushions, but failing because the couch was too solid to do so. "It said it was a Christmas movie?"

Tom seemed to be doing something funny with his face, and then he said, in a measured tone, "Alright," and leant back on the couch to watch.

It was an agonizing twenty minutes as they both sat there, watching the movie, waiting for the food Tom had ordered to arrive. When there was finally a knock at the door, Harry actually jumped in surprise at the sound, and Tom practically bolted over to open the door.

Tom handed over some pound notes, saying, "Keep the change," before he shut the door and whirled back around, takeout boxes in hand. "I'll just go put these onto some plates," Tom said, and then he escaped into the kitchen.

Harry eyed the laptop speculatively. Maybe he could skip the movie ahead a bit, therefore shortening the amount of torture time left, and then Tom could pick the next movie, which would be something infinitely more sensible than this one.

Tom came back out bearing two plates of pancakes covered in fruit and syrup.

"Thanks," Harry said automatically, accepting the plate Tom offered him. He set it onto his lap, and then began to cut up the food into small pieces, so as to avoid having to look at the laptop screen. He was hoping that Tom would just let it stay paused.

Then Harry took a bite of his pancake and nearly choked on it. It was sweet, yes, but it was also buttery and flavourful and amazing, making it the best pancake he ever remembered eating.

"This is really good," Harry said, swallowing.

Tom smiled. "It's one of my favourite restaurants. I'll have to take you there, sometime."

Harry smiled back reflexively, then went back to looking down at his now half-eaten pancakes. "That would be nice," he said.

Tom reached over and hit play on the movie once again, so Harry tried to preoccupy himself with his food. Maybe if he made small talk, he could drown out his panic-addled movie choice.

"So, how long have you lived here?" Harry asked.

Tom eyed Harry speculatively for a moment, then said, "Harry, I own the building."

This was too much. Harry wasn't sure how he was supposed to be able to handle any of this and not come out of it utterly insane. Tom owned the building that Harry lived in, of course he did.

"But—the name on the lease?"

"Gaunt," Tom said casually. "My mother's maiden name. I like to enjoy a bit of anonymity here, you understand."

"Makes sense," Harry said, for the lack of anything more intelligent to say. Harry then decided to give up on small talk, just in case he found out something else crazy, like Tom also secretly owning the hotel that Harry worked at. Which, at this rate, was not only possible, but also highly likely.

The rest of the movie played itself out, and their breakfast plates eventually cleared themselves. Tom carted the dishes off to the kitchen, and then Harry heard the sound of the dishwasher purring to life.

"Would you care for a drink?" Tom asked, his voice carrying clearly from where he was still in the kitchen.

Harry checked the time on his phone. It was barely past eight. "Isn't it sort of early?" asked Harry.

"Never too early on Christmas," Tom said lightly. "I like to think of it as being opportunistic. And a bit of drink will help warm you right up."

The fridge opened and closed. There was the noise of a bottle of champagne being popped, and then the subsequent sounds of liquid being poured over ice. Then Tom came back into the sitting area and handed Harry a glass of what looked to be a mimosa.

"How about some music?" Tom asked, setting his own drink onto a coaster. He swung the laptop around and soon enough, low-volume jazz music began to play through the laptop's speakers.

Then Tom settled back into the couch, sweeping his right leg up so that his knee was nearly touching Harry's. He looked completely relaxed as he gazed over at where Harry was holding his untouched drink.

"Go on," said Tom, so casually that he could have been talking about the snow piling up on the roads outside their building. "Give it a taste."

Harry obediently raised the glass to his lips and took a sip. It tasted nice—which was to say, it tasted _ expensive_. Even the _ orange juice _tasted expensive. Harry took another sip, just to make sure, and then set the glass down on one of the plain white coasters Tom had on his coffee table.

"So, Harry," Tom said, angling his body so that they were facing each other. His knee was now pressed against Harry's thigh. "Tell me a bit more about yourself. I feel like I hardly know you, despite the fact that we're neighbours."

Harry hated this question. He hadn't enjoyed it in high school, or college, and he certainly hadn't enjoyed it when he'd been job hunting. He didn't think there was anything particularly interesting about him at all, which meant there was little to say.

"I grew up in Surrey, in South England," Harry said slowly. "With my aunt and uncle. My parents died in an accident when I was only an infant."

"That's quite unfortunate," Tom said sympathetically. "I'm sorry for your loss."

"Yeah." Harry reached up to rub at the back of his neck. "And my aunt and uncle, well, they weren't the best guardians, growing up. They had their own son, Dudley, and they kind of spoiled him a lot."

Tom nodded sagely. "I can understand how lonely that must have been. An outcast in the place you were meant to call home."

Harry flushed and ducked his head. "It wasn't that bad, really." To steady himself, Harry reached back out for his drink and took another swallow. The tangy sweetness of the orange juice made him feel a little better.

"There's no need to understate it, Harry," Tom said gently, leaning forward so that Harry could see the sincerity in his eyes. "I know what it's like to be unwanted, you see. I was born in an orphanage—my mother was destitute when she arrived there, and she gave birth to me only to pass away shortly after. I lived there for my entire childhood, thinking that no one cared enough to come looking for me."

"Oh, Tom," Harry said unthinkingly. "That's terrible, I'm so sorry." And to think, here he was, complaining about his own life, when Tom hadn't had any relatives or anyone to take him in at all.

Tom waved an airy hand. "It's quite alright. I told myself I would pave my own way in the world, and I have." Tom gestured at the flat around them. "I have a place of my own, a job where I can succeed, and pleasurable company that I enjoy." With that said, he smiled at Harry, and Harry felt his cheeks grow warm again.

"You've done really well," Harry agreed. "You always seem very busy."

"Everything has its price, I suppose." Tom picked up his own drink once more and took a slow sip from it. "But I think it's well worth it, to be able to have all of the things I want in life."

Harry nodded, unsure what to say. It wasn't as though he had any great wealth or career to boast of, so it was difficult for him to relate to Tom's words.

"I'm a very particular man," Tom continued, gazing so directly at Harry that it felt like he was being examined under a microscope. "But when I do know what I want, I don't hesitate."

Harry picked up his glass and drained the rest of it so he could avoid looking Tom in the eye, because Harry was sure that, at any moment now, he was going to slip and say something completely embarrassing and ruin the mood.

However, once his glass was empty, Harry noted, with no small amount of anxiety, that Tom was still staring at him in the same heavy way. Harry swallowed nervously, and then watched as Tom's eyes dropped to the motion of his Adam's apple.

"Did—did you want to watch another movie?" Harry croaked out. And then he mentally ran himself over with a bulldozer, because that was probably the least sexiest thing he could have possibly said. Even horny teenagers had more sense than he did.

Tom visibly paused, and then set his glass back down upon the table. "We could do something else," Tom offered, and then he uncrossed his legs, which meant that most of Tom's leg was now pressed against most of Harry's leg, which meant that Harry's mental processes were slowly beginning to have a meltdown.

The music was still playing the background. Harry vaguely noted that they had moved onto Christmas music instrumentals, but most of his attention was consumed by where Tom was touching him.

"What… what other things?" Harry managed to ask.

"I'm sure we can think of _ something_," Tom said, his voice reaching a lower register that made Harry's heart skip several beats in a row. He had certainly had… fantasies about this kind of moment, but he would have never thought that any of them would ever resemble anything close to reality.

Part of Harry's brain was screaming at him to move, to react, because currently he was sat here doing nothing like an idiot, while Tom continued to look at him with what Harry was now realizing would be described in a cliched romance novel as 'bedroom eyes'. The ridiculous part was that Harry still thought it was hot, and that meant Harry was probably a goner.

And then Tom's hand reached up to press the pads of two fingers against Harry's cheek, tenderly adjusting the angle of Harry's head so that they were looking at each other properly.

"Tell me, Harry," Tom said delicately. "Are you seeing anyone?"

Harry shook his head mutely.

"Wonderful." Then Tom's gaze dropped to Harry's mouth, and this caused Harry to notice that he'd unconsciously bitten down on his own lower lip some time after draining his mimosa.

It was this point that Harry finally realized Tom was, in fact, intending to kiss him.

Then, lo and behold, Tom leaned in.

Harry couldn't help the slight gasp that escaped him as Tom's lips pressed against his own. The immediate impression he got was that the kiss was _ intense_, because Harry had initially tilted backwards slightly out of shock, but Tom had still chased Harry's mouth down to snog him properly.

Harry's hand shot out to grip Tom's waist for balance, his fingers curling into the soft fabric. He could feel himself start to sway just as Tom's hand slid around to cup the back of his neck, keeping them both held close together.

The way Tom kissed was much like how he talked—confident and flawless. His hand, still firmly holding Harry upright, burned where it touched Harry's skin.

If he hadn't already been sitting, Harry thought wildly, he probably would have fallen over.

They kissed for a while, long and slow, like Tom wanted to take the time to get to know just what kissing Harry was like. When they eventually parted for air, Harry found that not only was he sat upon Tom's lap, but he was also clinging awkwardly to Tom's expensive cashmere jumper with both hands.

Tom, however, had both his arms wrapped securely around Harry, like having Harry in his arms was the most natural thing in the world.

"Wow," Harry said, trying to unflex his fingers so that he could free Tom's jumper from his vice-like grip.

There was a wide, pleased smirk on Tom's face. Harry could feel the gentle pressure of Tom's thumb stroking against the nape of his neck. Then Tom leaned in again, his nose pressing against Harry's cheek as he inhaled deeply. Harry didn't think he smelled particularly good today, as the only thing he'd applied was deodorant, but then Tom was nuzzling gently against Harry's jawline, and Harry promptly lost the train of thought he'd been having.

At this point, Harry was fairly sure he was actually still in his flat, frozen to death, and this was all some kind of incredible post-mortem afterlife fever dream. He pulled his glasses off reluctantly and placed them aside. He would have liked to be able to see Tom's face clearly, but wearing glasses wasn't conducive to the snogging Harry wanted them to be doing.

Tom lifted his head back up and kissed Harry again, just a quick peck on the lips, and then shifted back, dragging his gaze all over Harry's face, as though to drink in the sight of a masterpiece he'd just finished painting.

"You are exquisite," Tom said breathlessly, tracing his fingers across Harry's throat. And then he moved his hand lower, so that his fingertips brushed against Harry's collarbone. "Utterly perfect."

Harry felt warm all over at Tom's words. He wanted—he wanted—

Tom leaned in again, and then they kissed some more. Harry felt Tom's hand creeping under his green jumper to touch at the skin there, and that felt good, too. Harry was struck with the reminder that Tom had already seen _ him _ without a shirt, and that this was an unfair advantage.

So he tugged a little at Tom's jumper, trying to dislodge the hem of it. That made Tom pull away, just so that he could smile indulgently at Harry. And then Tom proceeded to strip himself of not only his jumper, but also the shirt underneath it.

Harry thought incoherently that if he tried to grip onto Tom the way he had to the cashmere fabric, he would likely not be able to find as much to grab at given the flat, firm planes of Tom's chest and torso. But Tom was really very warm, so as Tom dipped his head to mouth at Harry's neck, Harry found himself trying to cling anyways, trying to touch as much of Tom as was possible.

Then Tom's hands were on Harry's hips, sliding up and over Harry's sides, pushing Harry's jumper up as he went along. "Green looks very nice on you," Tom said idly, as though he was not in the middle of very systematically working Harry's jumper off.

"Thanks," said Harry, his voice muffled by the fabric going over his head. He wanted the jumper _ gone_, so that he could go back to kissing and touching Tom.

"I'll have to get you some other things in green," Tom mumbled, more like he was talking to himself than to Harry.

Then, once the barrier was finally absent, Harry straddled Tom's lap, trying not to roll his hips too wildly as Tom ran two hands up Harry's ribcage. Harry leaned in first this time, his nose bumping slightly into Tom's as he did so, and brought their mouths together again, parting his lips so that he could taste what remained of the mimosa that lingered between their tongues.

Eventually, Tom pulled away, breathing heavily as he slid a firm hand into Harry's hair, guiding Harry's head back only slightly, so that the column of his neck was more exposed. Harry licked his swollen lips as he stared into Tom's dark eyes, hoping that Tom was planning to leave some marks behind on the places he was eyeing.

Somehow, Tom must have known what Harry was thinking, because he brought his lips back to the same place they'd been before, this time scraping his teeth against the sensitive spots he'd already lavished attention on.

"Tom," Harry said, feeling dizzy with lust as he gripped Tom's shoulders, "_Tom_."

"Oh, Harry, I'll take excellent care of you." Tom had lifted his head away for only a moment, and was now beaming down at Harry almost angelically. "You needn't worry about anything at all."

* * *

Hours later, when Harry was at last sated and sleeping soundly in Tom's four-poster bed, Tom slid out from under the covers, padding silently over to where his night robe was hooked up on the door. He pulled the robe on and tied it closed neatly. Then he made his way back into his sitting room, where his phone, and most of his clothes, lay abandoned all over the couch and floor.

Picking up his phone, Tom unlocked it and checked quickly through his notifications. Malfoy had called him _ again_, two more times, which brought the total number of calls to three. Absolutely unacceptable. Was it really so hard to keep things running smoothly without Tom for one bloody fucking day?

Tom ignored all the work-related texts, calls, and e-mails, moving straight to his list of contacts. He typed in the name he wanted and hit the call button.

The phone rang only once before the call was picked up.

"Filch, I want the heating fixed before the end of the evening. Pay whatever it costs to get it done," Tom said directly into the phone, and then he hung up without waiting for an answer.

Then he made his way over to the closet by his door and opened it up. His toolkit was still there, and resting innocently inside of it were the blueprints for the central heating system in the building. Tom opened up the toolbox and pulled the papers out.

Slowly, methodically, Tom tore the blueprints to shreds, not stopping until all of the information had been reduced to tiny pieces of paper no bigger than Tom's thumbnail. Then, paper pieces in hand, Tom walked over to the kitchen and tossed it all into the waste bin. Moving to the sink, he filled a glass partway with water, and then dumped all of that into the bin as well, soaking the paper entirely.

Satisfied that there was no more evidence lying about, Tom placed the now-empty glass back in its proper place on his kitchen shelf, and walked back to his bedroom, humming as he went. The song from earlier was back in his head again.

Harry was still blissfully unaware as he slept snuggled up under all of Tom's warm, comfortable blankets. He didn't even stir as Tom approached, though Tom was now singing softly under his breath. Tom hung his robe back up on the door hook, and then slipped under the covers next to Harry, extending his hand so he could gently comb his fingers through Harry's hair.

Then Tom pulled Harry tenderly into his arms, so that Harry's back was pressed against his front, and murmured quietly against Harry's head, "_Baby, it's cold outside_."

* * *

A/N:

part two - same story but tom's pov, with a brief epilogue at the end - can be expected tomorrow.

in the meanwhile, comments are appreciated :)


	2. —put some records on while i pour

Tom practically lived and breathed productivity at work. He had a comfortable ottoman in his spacious office there, and no shortage of assistants that he could order to stay and bring him meals long after the regular workday had ended.

So whenever he did find himself back at his full-furnished flat, it was mostly for sleeping, eating, or showering, and it was usually only for a few hours at a time.

Despite this, Tom was still exceedingly picky about who he allowed to live in his building. Extensive background checks were done on all his tenants, and there were strict low-noise, non-smoking rules for all of the flats. Tom had personally researched all of the potential renters for the flats on his floor, and had so far only found one suitable person by the name of Hermione Granger. She was an over-achieving, vaguely sociable woman whose idea of a good time involved unlimited access to a bookstore. Most importantly, she was _ quiet_, and smart enough to take a hint when Tom blatantly ignored her friendly overtures.

Of course, none of the tenants knew that Tom Riddle owned the building. That would have been asking for people to be banging on his door at all hours of the day. The only reason Tom was living in his own building at all was that it was just simply more convenient, mostly because it was near his office, but also because he hardly spent any time at home to begin with.

When the profile of Harry Potter fell across Tom's desk one sweltering June morning, he set aside an entire two hours to look at it.

Potter was a few years younger than Tom, and worked night security at the local hotel, which was where Tom usually sent his more particular clients. At a glance, Potter was boring. No accolades to boast of, no notable aspirations. But a night-shift worker meant that Tom would probably never have to see him. Or, at least, would not have to see him very often. The interview that Lucius had held on Tom's behalf was full of notes on a mild-mannered, conscientious boy who was unlikely to cause any trouble.

So Tom decided to give it a try. One six-month period, and if it didn't work out—well, he'd hand out the 30-day eviction notice and be done with it. After all, it wasn't as though he, Tom, would have to bear any of the negative consequences of kicking someone out in the first month of the new year.

Tom gave the go-ahead, and Lucius was told to draw up a lease contract for Harry James Potter.

According to Filch, Potter had moved in with the most meager amount of belongings he had ever seen, and had then proceeded to fill his flat with furniture that did not match. Resisting the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose, Tom decided to just avoid Potter as much as possible.

But Potter somehow seemed to find ways to run into Tom, and he was always so genuinely _ cheerful _ when he smiled that it was hard for Tom to be irritated. So Tom started asking to borrow sugar, because Potter was relatively less annoying than the rest of the people in the building. And then, after maybe the second or third time of asking, Tom started leaving sugar off of his shopping lists altogether. It wasn't as though he needed much of it, and Potter was always there, ready and eager to play fetch. It was certainly easier than having to go out to get it himself whenever he forgot to order Lucius to do his shopping for him.

So it was on one December morning when Tom had arrived at his flat, intent upon a cup of tea with a spoonful of sugar, only to realize that he wasn't actually sure whether or not Potter was home. Well, there was only one way to find out.

Tom walked up to Potter's, noticing that there was a cheap mobile phone lying on the door mat. Ignoring it, he rapped smartly on the door a few times and waited. Clearly, Potter _was_ home, if the fact that he'd dropped his phone on his own doorstep accounted for anything.

There was still no response, so Tom tried again, knocking harder this time. Then his phone buzzed, so he pulled it out to look at. Lucius was bothering him with yet another inane question. Tom began to type out a lengthy diatribe that referenced Lucius' inability to know so much as how to breathe correctly.

The door opened just then, so Tom said, "Sugar," like he usually did. Potter would return with a paper cup of sugar, and Tom could go enjoy his tea in his flat in peace.

"What time is it?"

Tom, still in the middle of responding to his idiotic assistant, glanced irritatedly at the time displayed at the top of his phone. "It's five in the morning," he said. And then he looked up.

Potter was clad in a towel. He was clad _ only _ in a towel, and his hair was a disastrous mess, but somehow he was still the most beguiling sight Tom had ever seen. He was _ perfect_, and Tom had no idea how he'd failed to notice this before.

"Uh," said Harry Potter, blinking owlishly at Tom from behind his round spectacles. As Tom continued to stare, Harry began to slowly turn very red. Then Harry stuttered out, "I'll go get you your sugar," and stumbled away into his flat.

Tom put his phone away, his eyes fixed on Harry's retreating form. Clearly, he had not been paying nearly enough attention to his adorable, introverted neighbour.

When Harry returned with his little paper cup of sugar, as usual, he held it out nervously for Tom to take. He hadn't even bothered to put on a robe or anything. It was endearing.

"Thank you, Harry," Tom said, reaching out for the cup, taking care to brush the fingers of his hand against Harry's as he did so.

And then Tom remembered that Harry's phone was still resting on the doormat between them, so he bent down to scoop it up. "You must have dropped this last night when you came in," he said. Upon closer examination, the phone was cracked across the entire top left half. Obviously Harry was overdue for an upgrade.

"Ah, yeah, I must have," Harry said, sticking his hand back out for his phone. "Thanks."

But Tom wanted to know _ more_. So he turned the phone screen on, revealing a photo of Harry dressed as Spiderman. He was standing next to two of the other tenants in the building. Tom tried to access the home screen and was greeted with a request for the passcode.

Harry made a noise, and so Tom asked, "Passcode?"

"Zero-seven-thirty-one," said Harry.

His birthday. That made sense. Tom punched it in and went to the contacts app, scrolling carefully through to see if there was anyone that looked like potential competition. There were the names and numbers of some of the other tenants, the number for a nearby pizza shop, and the number of Filch, the maintenance man.

Satisfied that there was no immediate threat on the horizon, Tom hit the plus button and added his own information in. He made a point to leave off his last name, so that the contact only read 'Tom'. It was more personal that way; he wanted Harry to think of him in a friendly manner.

"Thank you again for the sugar," Tom said, and handed the device back over to Harry, who accepted it silently, an expression akin to worship painted all over his face. Then Tom turned around and went back to his flat, because absence only made the heart grow fonder, after all.

Tom cleared his schedule for the rest of the day and started to research. Firstly, a new phone for Harry, because the contraption he was using was pitiful, and Harry deserved something much nicer. Secondly, Tom had to go over Harry's profile _ again_, this time with the intention of memorizing all the details. Thirdly, he harassed Malfoy to write up a brand new report on his tenant interview with Harry Potter, with explicit instructions to spare no thought towards being concise.

Unfortunately, the week before Christmas was insanely busy, meaning Tom was practically living out of his office, barking orders at Lucius to bring him coffee and meals on top of his regular work reports. But Tom made sure to check his phone regularly, even going so far as to set a particular ringtone specifically for Harry's number, just to ensure that he didn't miss anything. However, by the time Friday arrived, still no calls or texts from Harry had arrived.

This was now an issue.

Tom sat in his chair, steepling his fingers under his chin. Harry was obviously attracted to him, so _ why _ hadn't Harry called him? Perhaps he was just shy... his Harry had definitely seemed like the shy type. But Tom had already gone and made the first move, so that should have taken a good deal of the pressure off. Tom frowned harder as he tried to puzzle it out.

Out of the corner of his eye, Tom saw Lucius shuffle silently into the room, placing a stack of papers very slowly onto the desk, so as not to disturb Tom's train of thought.

If Harry's endearing shyness was what was getting in the way, then clearly what Tom needed to do was to orchestrate a situation where Harry would be incentivized to spend time with him. He already knew that Harry was working the night before Christmas Eve, so that was an excellent starting point.

"Malfoy," Tom snapped out. "Clear my schedule for the 24th. I want the entire day free. I have some personal errands that need attending to."

Lucius started so violently at being suddenly addressed that he bumped his knee painfully against the table. "T-this coming 24th, sir? Christmas Eve? It's just—well, there's a forecast for a lot of snow this weekend—"

"Yes, Malfoy," Tom spoke slowly, to make sure he got his point across. "Christmas Eve is on the 24th, which is a _ Monday_. Or do you not work on Mondays anymore? Surely you can handle _ one _ day without this entire place burning to the ground?"

"I—of course, sir. Yes, sir."

"And I don't want to be bothered on that day, either. Full radio silence, am I quite understood?"

"Yes, sir." Lucius continued to stand there uncomfortably, as Tom had not dismissed him yet.

However, Lucius' comment about the snowfall had given Tom an excellent idea. "And get me the blueprints for the Gaunt building," Tom added. "I want them on my desk before the end of the hour. Dismissed."

Lucius left without another word, which was what he'd been trained to do.

Once he had the blueprints in hand, Tom spent an absurd amount of time trying to figure out how central heating worked, with the express purpose of learning how to take it apart. Because he didn't want to ruin the heating for the _ entire _ building, since that would be costly. Tom just needed to figure out how to ruin Harry's flat specifically, and then perhaps a few others as well, just so it wouldn't be suspicious.

Eventually, Tom thought he had a viable plan figured out.

So on Sunday evening, Tom left work early, drove directly to his building, and 'fixed up' the heating. Then Tom called Filch to tell the man that the heating was having problems, and to inform any affected tenants that it would be fixed the morning after. Filch knew better than to bother Tom with petty complaints and the like, so Tom was reasonably certain that no issues would come of it.

Ensconced in his flat, Tom cheerfully set an alarm on his phone for early the next morning—around the time when Harry was likely to be returning from work—and then went to bed. When he woke it would simply be a matter of waiting for Harry to return home, and then Tom could pay his darling neighbour a friendly visit.

When his alarm rang, Tom got up and went through his usual morning routine, taking extra care with his appearance. Then he sifted through his closet, tossing aside all the options that weren't expensive enough or impressive enough. Harry needed to see Tom and know, without a doubt, that Tom was the best choice he would ever make in his entire life.

Eventually, Tom settled on a pair of dark-wash denim jeans, a short-sleeved white t-shirt, and a black cashmere jumper. Tom had always thought he looked excellent in black.

It was only moments after Tom had started to pace impatiently in his sitting room that he heard the tell-tale noises indicating that Harry had just let himself into flat 6G. Tom checked his watch and decided he would wait twenty minutes before he went over, just to allow some time for the frosty air to settle in.

Some seconds passed, and Tom's foot started tapping on the floor. Had time always been this _ slow? _

Checking his watch again, Tom saw that it had barely been three minutes. He got up and went over to his laptop, turning it on. The screen came to life quickly, and Tom logged onto his account. He would put some Christmas music on, and that would hopefully help him pass the time. Songs were, on average, three minutes long. That meant he could listen to approximately six songs, and then he would go and see Harry.

Tom managed to sit through three songs before he gave up and shut the music off. It was fine. It was all fine. Ten minutes wasn't… unreasonable. It was perfectly reasonable to go say hello to your neighbour right after they'd gotten home, even when it was—Tom checked his watch for the third time—five o'clock in the morning.

Smoothing his clothes, Tom stood and briskly made his way over to Harry's flat. The door read, in bold lettering, 6G. Knocking thrice, Tom arranged his face into a pleasant smile and waited for his Harry to appear.

When Harry opened the door, he was still wearing his scarf, hat, and bulky winter coat.

"Hello, Harry," Tom said. Then, allowing a bemused expression to fall upon his face, he continued, "I heard you come in about ten minutes ago, and I was wondering if I could—"

"Sugar," Harry said quickly, turning the most delectable shade of pink as he did so. "You're here for sugar?"

"Yes," said Tom patiently. Harry was noticeably pleased to see him, and that thought warmed Tom up immensely.

"Yeah, obviously, of course—just—give me a moment," Harry said. Then he practically jogged back into his flat. If only Malfoy could take a few pointers from Harry when it came to timeliness, Tom mourned. But, of course, not everyone could be as perfect as Harry was.

"Oh, there's no hurry, Harry," Tom said, so as not to make Harry any more nervous. He wanted Harry feeling nice and comfortable, so that he would accept Tom's offer to come over. "Take your time," he added, just for good measure.

Music was echoing around in Tom's head. Harry was still in the kitchen, so Tom began to tap his foot upon the floor, humming in the hopes that the sudden earworm would leave.

Shortly after that, Harry re-approached the door eagerly, cup in hand.

"It's rather cold in here," Tom said casually, accepting the sugar. "Is there something wrong with your heating?"

"Oh," said Harry. "Yes. Filch said the heating's been busted in some of the flats. There'll be someone in to fix it tomorrow morning."

Tom waited to see if Harry would say anything further, but Harry seemed to be done talking. So Tom spoke again, laying out the bait, "Well, that simply won't do. You'll have to come and stay with me."

"I—what?" Harry asked.

"Your flat has no heating. You can't possibly expect to stay in it for the rest of the day. You'll catch pneumonia and freeze to death long before nightfall. Unless you have somewhere else to go?" Tom added, knowing that the answer was likely no. All of Harry's social contacts had been tenants in the building, tenants that Tom knew had gone home to their families for Christmas.

"No, but. But. You—you really don't have to do that."

"Why not?" Tom held up his cup of sugar and gave it a little shake, raising his brow as he did so. "We are neighbours, after all. And it's Christmas Eve." He offered Harry his most charming smile, the one that convinced even the wealthiest clients to sign their names without reading the contracts.

"Well, alright, if you're sure it's no trouble—"

"Of course it isn't," Tom said. "No trouble at all." If Harry only knew all of the trouble Tom had actually gone to… this was hardly anything. Harry was doing _ him _ a favour by agreeing to stay.

"Then… I guess I'll just go and grab some of my things," Harry said slowly, looking down at his feet. Tom glanced down as well, and noted that Harry was wearing mismatched socks. One of them was clearly an ankle sock, and the other one was a worn-looking crew sock. Both were black, but Tom had to wonder just how Harry could have gotten them so disastrously mixed up.

"I'll meet you at mine when you're ready, then," said Tom, forcing himself to look back up at Harry's face. Harry was still flushed pink, although whether that was from Tom's magnetic presence or from the cold, it remained to be seen.

Tom went back to his flat and took a quick glance around, making sure that everything was perfectly spotless. Then he examined his reflection in the mirror hung up by the door, to make sure that his hair was properly styled into place.

Some time later, Tom heard Harry's two timid knocks upon his door. The sound of it filled Tom with more thrilled anticipation than he'd experienced in years. He strode over to the door and quickly pulled it open.

What he saw was as equally delightful as what he had heard. Harry had changed clothes before coming to see Tom. He was now wearing jeans and an emerald green jumper. The green really brought out Harry's eyes, Tom thought fondly. He took a step back, gesturing Harry in.

Harry stepped inside, his bright eyes glancing all around as he took in the sight of Tom's flat.

"What do you think?" Tom asked, hoping that Harry found the space to be suitably impressive.

"I think it's perfect. It suits you really well." Then Harry _ blushed_, which was really the perfect end cap to the perfect compliment.

But Tom offered Harry a reassuring smile, to show that the comment was welcome, and Harry seemed to relax a bit.

"You can set your things in my bathroom," Tom said, stepping towards Harry. "It's just this way." The opportunity to play tour guide was just too exquisite to pass up; Tom pressed his hand softly against Harry's back, gently leading him down the hall.

"Thanks again for letting me stay," Harry said, talking a little faster than normal. "I know it's Christmas Eve, and you probably have better things to do than to spend it making sure your neighbour doesn't freeze to death."

Had no one ever shown this boy a scrap of kindness before? Or was Harry really just that insistent on not being a bother? Tom was beginning to find himself irritated with Harry's friends and family. They needed to do a better job of bolstering Harry's sense of self-esteem.

Tom watched as Harry set his bag on top of the sink counter. "Really, Harry, it's no issue. I didn't have any plans for Christmas Eve, so it will be nice to have someone to spend it with this year." Then he took a careful step closer, so that he could feel the heat radiating from Harry's body.

"Oh?" Harry sounded suddenly breathless as he stuttered out, "So you're not—you aren't—"

"I am most definitely not seeing anyone," Tom assured him. There was no reason to think of anyone else after Tom had set his sights on Harry.

Harry coughed. "Right. Well. Er—good. I mean, not _ good_, but, um." Then he reached up to adjust his glasses nervously, biting down onto his lower lip.

"Why don't I go make you a cup of coffee," Tom said, pulling away. "It's the least I can do, considering all the sugar you've loaned me." He resisted the urge to reach out and touch Harry's shoulder as he left the bathroom, telling himself that he had to be patient. It would do no good to crowd Harry too much before he was ready.

Tom could hear Harry trailing close behind as they walked into the kitchen. As they stopped in front of Tom's coffee machine, Tom caught the confused expression on Harry's face.

"I like to add the sugar in manually afterwards," Tom explained. "I don't buy those pods that already come pre-sweetened." Then he proceeded to make them each a cup of coffee.

"How many sugars?" Tom asked, once the coffees were done.

"Ah, two sugars is fine."

The cup of sugar that Harry had lovingly provided was sat upon the counter. Tom scooped it up into his left hand, using his right hand to disperse two helpings of sugar into Harry's mug. Something sweet for someone sweet. Tom pushed the mug over to Harry, and then picked up his own cup to take a sip.

Harry was staring at him again, and it took a moment for Tom to logic out the reason why. "I take my tea with sugar, not my coffee," he said, smirking slightly.

"Right," Harry said, still looking adorably confused.

They sipped at their coffee in companionable silence. Tom took the time to gaze at Harry without interruption. Even though Harry's green jumper was of a nicer quality than what Tom had usually seen him wearing, it was still a little large on Harry's smaller frame. The idea that it had perhaps belonged to an ex-lover insinuated itself into Tom's mind, where it sat and simmered dangerously.

"Maybe I should see if there's someone else I can stay with for the night," Harry said suddenly. "You've been too kind already, and I really don't want to cause you any trouble."

No, _ no, _ that was not to be allowed. Harry wasn't allowed to go parading himself over to an ex's flat when Tom was here and perfectly available to take care of him properly, the way he deserved to be looked after. "Don't be ridiculous, Harry," Tom said sharply. "I've told you, I'd like the company."

"If you're sure," Harry said, sounding hopeful.

"I'm _ very _ sure," Tom said, happy now that it seemed Harry understood the situation better. Harry was going to stay here with him, and it was going to be the best Christmas Eve he'd ever had. Tom took both mugs and carried them to the dishwasher. "Why don't you make yourself comfortable on the couch? Or did you want to sleep? You can take my bed, if that's the case."

The mental image of Harry in his bed was very pleasing, and it was certainly going to become a reality before the end of the day, if Tom had any say about it.

"I'm not tired," Harry said quickly.

So Tom moved back to the sitting room where the couch was, knowing that Harry would follow him. "I could put a movie on," Tom said. "And I'm afraid I don't have any breakfast foods to eat, but we can order in."

"Sure," Harry said. "I left my wallet in my flat, but I can go get it—"

Silly notion, Tom thought, reaching out to curl his fingers around Harry's forearm. "You're my guest," Tom said kindly. "I'd hardly expect you to pay for breakfast."

Harry's entire body shifted as he seemed to take in the tone of Tom's voice, and then he moved to go sit on the couch.

Pulling out his phone, Tom dialed the number of his usual restaurant to place his usual order, only this time with two servings instead of one. He kept his eyes on Harry the entire time, so that Harry knew he was more important than the tedious act of ordering the food. When the call was done, Tom set his phone down on the side table, and then went to grab his laptop where he'd left it tucked inside the drawer of the coffee table.

He navigated to Netflix, and then handed the entire thing over to Harry. "Pick something," Tom said. He was curious as to what Harry would choose.

It was that moment when Tom's phone rang shrilly. Scowling, Tom looked over to see who it was. Unsurprisingly, it was Lucius. He snatched up the phone and began walking towards his bedroom as he answered the call.

"I thought I told you _ no one was to call me today_," Tom hissed out. "Or were my very simple instructions not clear enough even for your moronic brain? I have half a mind to fire you over this, Malfoy."

Lucius simpered, backpedaling, and begged for Tom's forgiveness. Tom did not want to hear Lucius' excuses. Harry was waiting around alone in Tom's sitting room, instead of spending time with Tom like he was supposed to be doing, because Lucius Malfoy was a gibbering idiot who was incompetent at his job.

"Unless the _ entire company _ is magically about to go under," Tom began dangerously, "you _ will _ handle whatever this is about, and you _ will not _ call me for the remainder of today if you value your life. I have left you plenty of notes and instructions on how to handle various situations, and you will use them in a way that is _ intelligent,_ or you can kiss your menial little job goodbye." And then Tom hung up.

Harry was scrolling on Tom's Macbook when Tom returned to the sitting room. "Sorry about that," Tom said. The mere sight of Harry melted all of his previous frustrations away. "Work emergency. What have you got for us to watch?"

Tom sat down on the couch, close but not too close, and peered at the screen.

"The… Princess Switch?" Tom asked dubiously.

"I don't know," Harry said. He seemed embarrassed again. "It said it was a Christmas movie?"

Deciding it was in his best interests to not question it further, Tom said, "Alright," and shifted back into the couch cushions.

Tom's suspicions of the movie being geared towards young girls was confirmed not very far into the film. A side glance at Harry revealed that Harry was trying, and failing, to pretend that everything was perfectly fine. Perhaps letting Harry choose the movie had been a bad decision. Tom resolved to find out what Harry's movie interests were, so next time he could pick something for them to watch together that Harry would enjoy.

When the food delivery finally arrived, Tom was only too eager to get away from the movie and answer the door. Opening the door revealed some teenage-delivery girl with short black hair and red-framed glasses. Tom took the two bags of takeout from her and handed over enough money to cover three times the amount of food he'd ordered. "Keep the change," he said curtly, and then he shut the door in her face.

Turning back to the sitting room, Tom said to Harry, "I'll just go put these onto some plates," and then proceeded into the kitchen to do just that.

Once Tom was satisfied that the fruit and pancakes were arranged artistically on the plates, he carried them back out into the sitting room, handing one of the plates to Harry.

"Thanks," Harry said.

Tom watched as Harry slowly cut his food into bite-sized pieces. Then, finally, Harry speared a chunk of pancake with his fork and brought it to his mouth. His eyes widened as he chewed. "This is really good," Harry said.

"It's one of my favourite restaurants," Tom said. Then he added, "I'll have to take you there, sometime." The first of many places Tom planned to take him.

Harry's smile lit up his entire face. "That would be nice," he said shyly.

It was so _ easy _ to make Harry happy. Tom found himself extraordinarily gratified with knowledge that he was responsible for the smile on Harry's face.

To punctuate his commitment to seeing Harry smile more, Tom pressed play on the movie again, just so that Harry didn't think Tom was annoyed about his choice.

Then Harry asked, "So how long have you lived here?"

Tom had to think whether or not he wanted to answer that. But Harry's face so earnest that it was hard to do anything but tell the truth.

"Harry, I own the building," Tom said gently.

Harry blinked. "But—the name on the lease?"

"Gaunt. My mother's maiden name." Tom inhaled deeply, trying not to think too much about his family. "I like to enjoy a bit of anonymity here, you understand."

"Makes sense," Harry said, and that seemed to mark the end of the conversation.

After the movie finished, Tom took care of the dishes, pondering his next move. He wanted Harry to feel safe with him, so that meant further conversation. To facilitate that conversation, perhaps something... extra would be required. Nothing strong, because Tom wanted Harry to be very much aware of what he was doing and who he was doing it with, but just enough to loosen the tongue a bit.

"Would you care for a drink?" Tom called out.

There was a pause from the sitting room. "Isn't it sort of early?" asked Harry.

"Never too early on Christmas," Tom said lightly, already moving to the fridge. "I like to think of it as being opportunistic. And a bit of drink will help warm you right up."

Soon enough, Tom had popped a bottle of champagne and mixed it with some organic orange juice in two clear crystal glasses. Harry was still seated upon the couch, fiddling nervously with his hands until Tom filled one of them with a drink.

Something was still missing. Tom's eyes fell upon the laptop again, and he asked, "How about some music?"

He set his glass down on the table, and then clicked onto the playlist he usually played in the office when he needed to focus. As the music swelled around them, Tom settled back into the couch, lifting his right leg up so that he could rest his ankle on his knee. This, of course, meant that his knee was nearly touching Harry's. Tom gazed over at his lovely companion.

"Go on," said Tom, eyeing the untouched drink in Harry's hand. "Give it a taste."

Harry immediately took a sip of the drink. Then he seemed to pause, taking in the flavour, and then took another drink before setting his glass down onto a coaster.

"So, Harry," Tom said, shifting himself so that his knee pressed into Harry's thigh. "Tell me a bit more about yourself. I feel like I hardly know you, despite the fact that we're neighbours."

Harry looked reluctant to answer, but he said, "I grew up in Surrey, in South England. With my aunt and uncle. My parents died in an accident when I was only an infant."

"That's quite unfortunate," Tom said, even though he'd already known all of that. "I'm sorry for your loss."

"Yeah." Harry cast his gaze back down at his lap, looking suddenly saddened, which Tom did not like to see. "And my aunt and uncle, well, they weren't the best guardians, growing up. They had their own son, Dudley, and they kind of spoiled him a lot."

"I can understand how lonely that must have been," Tom said quietly. "An outcast in the place you were meant to call home."

Harry ducked his head further, his cheeks pinkening. "It wasn't that bad, really."

Tom did not doubt that Harry was vastly underplaying the treatment he'd gotten, but he also knew that Harry likely did not want to be pushed on the subject. Surprisingly, though, Harry reached for his drink again and took another, longer drink from it.

Perhaps there could be a little pushing after all. "There's no need to understate it, Harry," Tom said, formulating what he wanted to say as he went along. He knew what Harry was feeling, so he could articulate it in such a way that Harry would see that they were kindred spirits, that they were meant to be together.

"I know what it's like to be unwanted, you see," Tom continued. "I was born in an orphanage—my mother was destitute when she arrived there, and she gave birth to me only to pass away shortly after. I lived there for my entire childhood, thinking that no one cared enough to come looking for me."

"Oh, Tom. That's terrible, I'm so sorry."

The sound of his name on Harry's lips was like a siren call. Tom felt his heart thump treacherously in his chest in response to the genuine expression of empathy on Harry's face.

"It's quite alright," Tom said, trying for nonchalance. "I told myself I would pave my own way in the world, and I have. I have a place of my own, a job where I can succeed, and pleasurable company that I enjoy." He made sure to emphasize the word 'pleasurable' as he smiled warmly at Harry.

"You've done really well," Harry said. "You always seem very busy."

They were so _ close_, Tom could practically taste it. Everything inside of him was vibrating with the need to pull Harry into his arms. "Everything has its price, I suppose," Tom said. He picked up his own drink and took a slow sip from it, trying to soothe his overexcited nerves. "But I think it's well worth it, to be able to have all of the things I want in life."

Harry nodded slowly in response, looking entranced, and Tom decided it was time to pounce.

"I'm a very particular man," Tom continued, focusing his entire attention on Harry. "But when I do know what I want, I don't hesitate."

That was when Harry picked up his glass and drained the entire thing.

Tom resisted the urge to smirk, knowing now that Harry was where Tom had planned for him to end up. Harry's green eyes were gazing cautiously at Tom, but Tom could see his pupils were most definitely dilated as he swallowed. Tom allowed his gaze to linger over the motion as he wondered what Harry's skin would taste like.

"Did—did you want to watch another movie?"

Oh, Harry. Sweet, oblivious Harry. They were very nearly there, and Tom was not about to let all of his planning go to waste simply because Harry was too shy to ask for what he wanted. Tom set his drink back onto the table and said, very clearly, "We could do something else."

And then Tom uncrossed his legs, so that their thighs were pressed together.

Harry gaped slightly for a moment, the warm blush returning to his cheeks. "What… what other things?" Harry asked.

"I'm sure we can think of _ something_," Tom said shamelessly.

Harry didn't say anything else, so Tom took that as his cue to go further. He lifted a hand to Harry's cheek, shifting over so that they were only inches away from each other.

One last question, then. So that Harry understood, once and for all, exactly what Tom's intentions were. "Tell me, Harry," Tom said airily. "Are you seeing anyone?"

Harry shook his head mutely.

"Wonderful," Tom said, and he meant it. Then his gaze dropped deliberately to Harry's mouth, giving Harry ample time to see what was going on, so as not to spook him.

Then, when it seemed that Harry was fine with it, Tom leaned in and kissed him.

What was beautiful was how Harry _ gasped _ when their mouths touched. Tom had to chase the noise, moving closer so he could finally start to quell the raging desire inside of him. Harry was kissing back, desperately clutching at Tom's waist as he did so. To soothe him, Tom slid his own hand to caress the back of Harry's head, his fingers lingering around the nape of Harry's neck.

They kept kissing until Harry made another noise like a whimper, which inspired Tom to wrap both arms around Harry's waist and pull Harry onto his lap. But Harry was still clinging to him, like he couldn't quite get close enough, and Tom wanted to tell Harry that they would be getting there very, very soon.

Harry looked up at Tom from under his lashes as he breathed out. "Wow."

Tom could only picture how Harry would look draped in his bedsheets, glowing with such happiness that the memory of it would be burned into Tom's memory forever. Unable to help himself, Tom leant in again, just to nuzzle Harry's cheek and inhale Harry's scent. Harry clumsily pulled his glasses off and set them aside, so Tom gave Harry another quick kiss, mostly to reward the beautiful expression Harry had on his face.

"You are exquisite," Tom said. He began tracing his fingers over Harry's skin, first across Harry's throat, and then down his collarbone. "Utterly perfect."

Harry seemed ecstatic at the praise, because he beamed gorgeously at Tom, and that made Tom want to kiss him again, so he did so. They kissed for another long while, and Tom slid his left hand around and under Harry's jumper to place his hand on the bare skin of Harry's waist.

Then Tom felt Harry tugging on _ his _ jumper, and then he had to pull away, just so he could see the slightly petulant expression on Harry's face. Deciding to indulge Harry in his non-verbal request, Tom went to devoid himself not only of his jumper, but his t-shirt as well.

Harry blinked, as though trying to focus. With a quiet chuckle, Tom dipped his head to Harry's neck and began to plant slow, mouthy kisses there. This led to Harry scrabbling to hold on, his hands clutching against Tom's shoulder blades.

But Tom was not about to let him get comfortable, because now he wanted Harry's jumper off as well. Slowly, he started to tug the material upwards, noting its colour once more. "Green looks very nice on you," Tom said unthinkingly.

"Thanks," Harry panted, breathless even as Tom was pulling the jumper over his head.

"I'll have to get you some other things in green," Tom said aloud as he tossed Harry's jumper aside. Then Tom took a moment to admire how Harry was straddling his thighs, clearly eager to get on with things.

Surprisingly, Harry leant in to kiss Tom of his own accord this time, his hips jerking back and forth slightly as he did so, as though he was trying to restrain himself from being too wanton. Tom let Harry enjoy himself, choosing instead to roam his hands over Harry's back and shoulders. Eventually, though, he pulled away, because he wanted to try something else.

Harry peered at Tom, dazed. Tom slid his hand into Harry's soft, messy hair, tilting Harry's head back gently but firmly. The column of Harry's neck was begging to be marked. Harry must have thought so as well, because he caught Tom's line of sight and then, quite deliberately, licked his lips.

Tom went to suck and nibble at the places he'd been so close to marking earlier, and was delighted to feel Harry shudder underneath his touch.

"Tom, _ Tom_," Harry chanted, and Tom was drunk on the sound of it.

"Oh, Harry, I'll take excellent care of you." Tom retreated so he could gaze adoringly at Harry, pleased beyond measure at Harry's beautiful smile. "You needn't worry about anything at all."

* * *

When Harry woke later that day, Tom was curled up behind him, his thumb tracing slow patterns on Harry's bicep.

"Tom?" asked Harry, yawning. The room was mostly dark, but that could have just been because of Tom's dark green curtains.

"Yes?" Tom asked, his voice a low murmur. "Did you sleep well?"

Harry nodded, then remembered that Tom couldn't really see him. "Yes," he said. Then he added dozily, "Your bed is really great." It was warm here, and all the sheets and pillowcases were so _ soft_. Harry felt as though he'd been sleeping in a bed made of marshmallows while floating on a cloud.

Tom's arm tightened around Harry's waist, and he could feel Tom press his face against the back of Harry's head. "I'm glad to hear that," Tom said.

Though he was still rather sleepy, Harry wiggled himself loose of Tom's grip so that he could roll over and put a bit of distance between them. He wanted to see Tom's face properly, so he could maybe try to memorize how it looked. Tom seemed to dislike the distance, but his face did relax when he caught sight of Harry's smile.

"What time is it?" Harry asked curiously.

"It's still Christmas Eve," Tom said, reaching up to stroke Harry's cheek tenderly. "I'm afraid we may have missed lunch, and we're well on our way to missing dinner."

"Oh," Harry said sheepishly. "Sorry. You must be hungry." He'd forgotten that his odd working hours meant that his meals tended not to line up with everyone else's.

Tom placed a soft kiss on Harry's lips. "Not to worry, Harry," Tom said soothingly, his eyes soft and comforting. "We can order in some food. I told you, I'm going to take care of you."

Harry smiled tentatively, hardly able to believe his luck. Tom was so understanding and patient and _ handsome_. Harry had never been told by anyone that they wanted to take care of him before, but coming from Tom it was suddenly plausible.

"I'm really happy we'll be spending Christmas together," Harry said, hoping it didn't sound too desperate or overeager.

Tom hummed, running the fingers of his left hand through Harry's hair as he said, "The first of many, I should hope."

"First of many," Harry repeated, and let himself be pulled back into Tom's embrace.

* * *

A/N:

and then they lived happily ever after, sugar daddy tom and sugar baby harry :)

find the sequel to this on my profile!


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